The city is like poetry: The island of Manhattan is without doubt the greatest human concentrate on earth, the poem whose magic is comprehensible to millions of permanent residents, but. Prose Home Harriet Blog. Visit Home Events Exhibitions Library. World trade center security bypassed by 1670 the city comes to know itself through fragments from its past. In the lobby of 7 World Trade Center, Shelley Jackson watched ghostly words scroll across a glass wall.
The Something is coming. Already, we are anticipating; already, we are predicting the future. The future is to the right. To the left is a shrinking emptiness that already looks naive. We should have known: Or city as essence? The city is Of course it is. We knew that from the beginning. And what about the nothing that the something is pushing back to our left? The city is like The city is like many things: What will it be this time? They glide from right to left, a few feet above eye level, across a wall 65 feet in width.
They are made of light: You can see only the individual points of light when you stare immediately ahead; to right and left, they fog into a general luminosity.
In front of the wall, with their backs to it, men in earpieces busy themselves at a marble-topped counter overlooking the lobby. They punctuate the counter, which extends the length of the wall, at regular intervals. They wrap slowly around the glass cylinders of the revolving doors, and pivot with their vanes as they turn. This motion—twirling, scrolling—haunts this work, even making a ghostly visitation one night before the opening: You could read poems and letters and travelogues.
And you could read an entire book by E. We now have an answer to our earlier question. It is not the Platonic form of city. It is a specific city: But which New York? The New York of or or ? There is a strict architecture in which right angles predominate. Traffic is guided into lines.
But everywhere there are endings and beginnings: Often the two are one and the same: From the street outside, the words, flowing from right to left, seem to be pouring into that hole.
To fill it up? To recapitulate a loss? The words concern New York and are taken from every period in its history. Many of them hearken back to a New York that was already lost at the time they were written.
Some of them think ahead to a future that is, for us, already past. The principle of change is in its very structure. Our eyes are used to moving too, moving over text in particular, and so they slide forward against the backward motion of the text, creating something like the sensation aboard a ship leaving port: Trying to advance, the gaze sticks at the right, where the words emerge like luggage from a carousel. World trade center security bypassed by 1670 erasure of the leading edge, the steady feed of new material, heightens the present moment and abbreviates it.
And something is passing away. This is so in several ways. It is haunted, like many books, by the voices of dead writers, the memory of lost people and places.
Unlike books, it is almost bodiless: The effect is dizzying, and I begin to feel light-headed, even slightly nauseous.
When I close my eyes, the words glide on inside my head; the text has written itself world trade center security bypassed by 1670 me. Am I going to get a migraine? My discomfort alarms and impresses me: I am physically traumatized by a work of literature. A piece of writing has bypassed my world trade center security bypassed by 1670 to afflict my body!
The material substrate—paper, wall, screen, skin. The setting—bedroom, school, street. The occasion—time of day, quality of light, sounds, smells, nearby people and adjacent texts. The larger context—the city, the country, the planet; the decade, the century. No doubt I could go on to include gravity, time, the first law of thermodynamics, and the speed of light.
To publish your work as memoir rather than fiction e. So is to spray-paint your work on a wall rather than send it to The Paris Review. The context shapes the reading of every piece of writing, and I suggest that to shape it, consciously or not, is part of writing too. Most writers leave that to others: Jenny Holzer, however, has intervened in nearly every category of my list above.
True, while Holzer does compose the text for many of her works, this one is entirely world trade center security bypassed by 1670 up of borrowings. That original trauma was heavily mediated screened, in more than one sense of the wordbut for New Yorkers it was also immediate and physical: To induce nausea not to mention the sense that the ceiling is falling is not just to recollect but to reenact the trauma, in an altered context that provides a prompt to reverie—to memory.
This, too, is a kind of haunting—a revenant of a past trauma that is not quite laid to rest. A past that is also part of the present. There, they exist in space—the rectangle of the page, the block of the book.
They have presence, simultaneity, visual unity. They have a body: Here, space is translated into time. Of course, books must also be translated into time: World trade center security bypassed by 1670 run our eyes in sequence over the words, stringing them on our lifeline.
Print may be spatial, but reading is sequential. Reading, we also revisit the past, but not simply: Time is a Heraclitian river, and Holzer reminds us of its flow. What comes, comes too slowly; what leaves, leaves all too fast. Only the shortest sentences can be read in full. Longer ones must be read piecemeal, a few words at a time. The effect is of a sort of pointillism of sense. The meaning of the whole has to be assembled through an effort of memory and anticipation.
We try to guess the future, and get it wrong. But the words, as they slide by, do not only world trade center security bypassed by 1670 but perform the slipperiness of memory. Or, rather, we perform them. It simply has a different performative element. By flowing the text, removing line breaks and page turns, Holzer has removed one performance—that of the reader weaving down the page, turning to the next—with another.
That turn and re-turn is part of the poem. To eliminate line breaks, replacing them with pauses, is to rewrite the poem. To eliminate the page is, too. Though most prose writers do not think of the page as part of their work, many poets do. In fact, one of the effects of displacing writing from the page is that it illuminates the architecture of that page.
It has hand-operated moving parts. It has hinges, like a door or a series of doors. It is made of paper, board, glue, thread, ink: It is smaller than us. It is for individual use.
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